I’ve written about the dairy animals we tended when I was a child and the opportunity and pain of morning and night chores. But there was a time, before the discipline of farm chores hit me and my siblings, when the passing of time and weight of responsibilities were not yet a part of my immediate experience. We lived on our small farm, without dairy animals from the time I was in third grade until about the sixth grade. When I think of that time period I remember wash day.
I’ve commented in other stories that my childhood memories and experiences are likely uncommon to other’s my age; because I was born to my parents, as their first child, when they were in their late 30’s. Therefore, my memory of wash day may sound very old fashioned. It focused on my mother rolling out the wringer washer into the packed dirt area outside the backdoor of our house; that immediate area served as roadway to the backfields, a driveway, and a backyard. The washer was white and sat high on top of four legs. Using a garden hose my mom would start to fill the washer. While it was filling she would bring out a simple platform that would hold two large galvanized rinse tubs; the tubs would sit side by side on the platform, just behind the washer.
One job I remember fondly was being responsible to fill the rinse tubs. My responsibility was to hold the garden hose and fill both tubs without splashing water everywhere or getting dirt or any debris into either tub. It doesn’t sound hard as I am describing it, but for some reason I would become distracted or, playing with the water as it entered the tub, the hose would get away from me and flip out of the tub or spray water on someone (my mom or a sibling). I wasn’t in too much trouble but I would be yelled at and told to pay more attention to my job.
The wash cycle began when the agitator was started and clothes added to the washing tub. With the agitator making a load mechanical sound as it thrashed about, water and soap suds would jump unexpectedly out of the washer. I don’t ever remember a lid on the washing machine and I remember being amazed at the mechanical marvel working to clean my clothes. At the time I didn’t think much about the details; looking back now I marvel that my mom had used some type of metal grater to shave thin shards of lye soap, from a large bar, into the wash tub. She had made a large pan of lye soap prior to wash day, and had cut the soap into large blocks to be used on wash day.
Another job I enjoyed was swinging the wringer assembly. It had a stick that could be pulled, which then allowed the wringer assembly to swing around so clothes could pass from the washing tub into the first rinse tub. My mom always moved the clothes from the washer, through the wringer, into the first rinse tub. After the clothes landed in the rinse tub I was sometimes allowed to help by lifting and dropping the clothes, getting them ready to pass a second time through the wringer, this time going from the first rinse tub to the second. When it was time, I would shift the wringer and move it between the first and second rinse tubs. Not often, because my mom was afraid I would catch my fingers in the wringer, I was allowed to grab a piece of clothing and push an edge between the moving cylinders that would ring the water and suds out of the clothes. I know it made my mom nervous to let me do it, but it was an honor to be given the chance.
A repeat of lifting and dropping the clothes in the second tub removed most of the suds form the clothes; the next step was a final pass through the wringer into a waiting clothes basket, to the side of second rinse tub. Again, I was allowed to move the wringer, and then, as my mom inserted the clothes into the wringer I would stand and ‘guide the clothes’ into the waiting clothes basket. I remember thinking how important the job was, if the clothes missed the basket they would land on the dirt (and we would have to start over); the clothes moved slowly through the ringer and always landed in the basket, but I thought it was good that I was there, just in case.
I didn’t help with hanging the clothes; the clothes line was way too high. My mom carried the basket of still wet clothes over to the clothes line and would hang the clothes where they would flap and swing with the least breeze. My siblings and I liked playing in the hanging clothes; my mom did not like it, and yelled at us if she caught us. Later she would come out and remove the clothes and take them into the house to be folded or hung up. The wash day ritual must have been highly evolved, from determining when to start the process to when to bring the clothes in at the end of the day. While I was intrigued with the process of wringing water and suds out of the clothes what I most remember was the open air, the bright sunlight, the fresh smells and the excitement of this major activity. While wash was being done we would run and play, watch cats resting in the warm sun, or play with our dogs.
It was an idyllic moment, I was aware enough to appreciate the beauty and comfort around me and to some extent the mechanical sophistication of the washing machine. I was not yet aware of the challenges that would come in the following years, the anxiety and doubt and worry that is a part of being human. At the time my work was play and I didn’t understand it, but I enjoyed it. Wash day was fun.
